We've finally established a pattern of talking, my Beloved and I, and when we have to go, it's like losing him all over again. I can't hold back the tears. It's as if for those brief moments life returns to the wrecked and ruined landscape of my being, and then is strip-mined away again, and I am in the midst of bereavement once more. Not the first few days when merciful shock wraps you in a cocoon of "un" -- unfeeling, unthinking, insensibility -- but the days after you walk away from the graveside and the family and friends who've appeared to help you simply fade away back into their own lives and you're finally, totally ALONE, wounded, dripping your soul's-blood away, knowing that you're dying and unable to prevent it. Unable and perhaps without the will, even if the ability could be found in that secret sacred space within.
If this were a vacuum, it would be easier. Everything would be inhaled into some other-ness, some alternate space, and I could just cease to be. But it's not a vacuum; it's a rent, a gash, a gaping and shredded-edged rupture in all that I am, all that I was, all that I ever could be. I miss him. I miss him. My heart no longer says "lub-dub, lub-dub." It repeats over and over, "where is he? Where is he? I miss him. I miss him."
I fear I cannot survive this.
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